He walked off, making toward the door.  But as he passed out she took him in her arms again, became meek and coaxing, lifted her face to his and rubbed her cheek against his waistcoat, much as a cat might have done.

“Where’s the fine house?” she whispered in laughing embarrassment, like a little girl who returns to the pleasant things she has previously refused.

“In the Avenue de Villiers.”

“And there are carriages there?”

“Yes.”

“Lace?  Diamonds?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, how good you are, my old pet!  You know it was all jealousy just now!  And this time I solemnly promise you it won’t be like the first, for now you understand what’s due to a woman.  You give all, don’t you?  Well then, I don’t want anybody but you!  Why, look here, there’s some more for you!  There and there and there!”

When she had pushed him from the room after firing his blood with a rain of kisses on hands and on face, she panted awhile.  Good heavens, what an unpleasant smell there was in that slut Mathilde’s dressing room!  It was warm, if you will, with the tranquil warmth peculiar to rooms in the south when the winter sun shines into them, but really, it smelled far too strong of stale lavender water, not to mention other less cleanly things!  She opened the window and, again leaning on the window sill, began watching the glass roof of the passage below in order to kill time.

Muffat went staggering downstairs.  His head was swimming.  What should he say?  How should he broach the matter which, moreover, did not concern him?  He heard sounds of quarreling as he reached the stage.  The second act was being finished, and Prulliere was beside himself with wrath, owing to an attempt on Fauchery’s part to cut short one of his speeches.

“Cut it all out then,” he was shouting.  “I should prefer that!  Just fancy, I haven’t two hundred lines, and they’re still cutting me down.  No, by Jove, I’ve had enough of it; I give the part up.”

He took a little crumpled manuscript book out of his pocket and fingered its leaves feverishly, as though he were just about to throw it on Cossard’s lap.  His pale face was convulsed by outraged vanity; his lips were drawn and thin, his eyes flamed; he was quite unable to conceal the struggle that was going on inside him.  To think that he, Prulliere, the idol of the public, should play a part of only two hundred lines!

“Why not make me bring in letters on a tray?” he continued bitterly.

“Come, come, Prulliere, behave decently,” said Bordenave, who was anxious to treat him tenderly because of his influence over the boxes.  “Don’t begin making a fuss.  We’ll find some points.  Eh, Fauchery, you’ll add some points?  In the third act it would even be possible to lengthen a scene out.”

“Well then, I want the last speech of all,” the comedian declared.  “I certainly deserve to have it.”